What starts off as a sweetly original, Jobs-like desire-mined story about a woman’s relationship with the net: before and after marriage, turns into a stupid, GOOFY-Lucy-type plot about a wife and mother who tries to hide her need to be free from her straight laced and slightly idiotic husband. Too bad.
Journalists must either eat or be eaten by more and more information. How to eat? Well, there’s Excel. And if Excel can’t make sense of “the new types of data” that Wikileaks was producing, then maybe a “data visualization expert” could make a pretty picture out of bomb explosion statistics. One might ask: what kind of journalism is being produced when data visualization takes the place of knowing how to read? Leaked, yes; but also wet.
Sad are the chronicled confessional ramblings of the intelligence officer who delivered reams of classified info on Afghanistan and Iraq to Julian Assange. Interview after interview reveals a lost boy, who would have been happy to board a ship with Peter Pan or fight Captain Hook but had no fealty to a real institution.
More annoying is the amount of print a gawkish, horny and supercilious press devotes to a base and baseless rape accusation motivated by a very small soul, albeit female. The “rape” consists of Assange not wanting to put on a condom, then putting on a purportedly ripped condom, all by invitation of a stultifyingly immoral Swedish member of some academically “green” cause. Miss Condom invites Assange to use her one-bedroom Stockholm apartment while she is away. Then Miss Condom shows up “early”, photographs Assange in her bed, and spends the night having “bad sex” (she tells a girlfriend the next day).